


Ghazal for a Slayer

by bobthemole



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Indian literature, Literary References & Allusions, Mirza Ghalib, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobthemole/pseuds/bobthemole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for [LJ-comm]still_grrr  #153  – Classic Literature (1660-1900 Neoclassic-Victorian)<br/>Ghazal: Yeh na thi hamari qismat, Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869), India. Based on the translation by Sarvat Rahman, with some edits by the author.<br/>Thanks to [LJ]mergle for the read-through. Notes on the ghazal at the end.</p><p>Originally posted:<br/>http://still-grrr.livejournal.com/776541.html<br/>http://bob-tales.livejournal.com/3047.html</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ghazal for a Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [LJ-comm]still_grrr #153 – Classic Literature (1660-1900 Neoclassic-Victorian)  
> Ghazal: Yeh na thi hamari qismat, Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869), India. Based on the translation by Sarvat Rahman, with some edits by the author.  
> Thanks to [LJ]mergle for the read-through. Notes on the ghazal at the end.
> 
> Originally posted:  
> http://still-grrr.livejournal.com/776541.html  
> http://bob-tales.livejournal.com/3047.html

**Though grief is life-consuming, the heart has its own rules**

**If I didn't mourn my love, I'd mourn my life anew**

 

The hundred-and-forty-sixth day was like all the others. He woke and had about three seconds of contentment before the reality of a world without Buffy came crashing down on him. In five months, even grief became a habit - a fixture in his routine between rueing the chip and patrolling with the Scoobies. Willie'd told him to stay away after the last time a vampire called him "Traitor!" and threw a bar stool at him, so not even a round of poker to take his mind off things.

 

He wondered how much longer he'd stay in Sunnyhell. He couldn't cling to Dawn forever. And who knew, maybe the dreams would end if he couldn't see Glory's tower on the horizon every day. Not that he minded the dreams - it's just waking up from them that did him in.

 

Two days later he was still in Sunnydale and didn't have to dream anymore.

 

~*~

**Who would understand it, exile's night is a dreadful thing,**

**I wouldn't have minded dying, if only one death I knew**

 

Everything in her room felt *weird* - as if it didn't belong to her anymore. Mr. Gordo could have been any plushie in a toy store for all she felt for it. Him. It.

 

There's the hat she'd bought herself as a treat the last time she died and came back. It was almost funny how upset she'd been over that stupid prophecy about her imminent death. She'd give anything for another one of those. She didn't belong here anymore.

 

But as long as she was here, she could clear out some space. She shook open a trash bag and started collecting junk. First to go was the Class Protector umbrella she got in high school. She couldn't remember why she'd held on to that broken piece of plastic.

 

~*~

**What friendship is this, where friends deliver sermons,**

**Would that I had a consoler, someone my grief to soothe.**

 

_We're so glad! Aren't you happy to be home? Why don't you smile more? We rescued you from a hell-dimension. A bit of gratitude wouldn't be out of place. Why did we bring you back if you won't spend any time with us?_

 

It's like everything they say is chased by an echo of what they mean. She doesn't think she is where she was before she died. That Willow had ears that listened, not eyes that demanded. That-Xander gave, but didn't expect. That-Giles wasn't absent. That-Dawn wasn't needy. That-Tara didn't hover. That-Anya didn't...well, anyway.

 

It was easy to figure out what they wanted to hear, but she almost choked on the words as she said them out loud. She barely stood still long enough to be clutched into hugs before she fled to the back alley where the sun was starting to slant.

 

There she saw Spike in the afternoon light, and she thought of miracles.

 

~*~

**I lived by your word and knew this, love, to be a lie,**

**For I would have died of happiness, had I known it to be true.**

 

 

The air was thick with sawdust, asbestos and plaster, and the only reason it didn't include vampire dust was because he hadn't impaled himself on a two-by-four while the Slayer rode him on every surface she could find. The silence belied the violence of their encounter a mere hour ago, when he felt himself scorched by the promise he saw in Buffy's eyes.

 

Now she was sleeping curled up on the floor where she'd last crawled off him, covered in dust and scratches but looking more peaceful than she had in weeks. Her skin was covered in goose-bumps so he picked his duster out of the rubble and draped it over her, making sure her toes were covered.

 

She stirred, still half-asleep, and mumbled, "Thanks."

 

"'Course, pet," he whispered.

 

He kept watch while his Slayer slept, and thought about tomorrow.

~*~

**It's a sign of your fragility that your promise was false,**

**For you could never have broken it, had it been true.**

 

 

"Why are you following me around like this, Spike? You think if you annoy me enough I'll throw myself at you again?"

 

"You admit it! _You_ jumped _me_. Can't even pretend to yourself that you're the aggrieved party here so stop acting the besmirched maiden. You were like a feral thing - "

 

"It was a mistake, Spike. A one time thing. It practically never happened."

 

"Toothmarks on my shoulder say it did."

 

"Mr. Pointy says the toothmarks better pipe down."

 

"Don't lie to me, pet. I was there, remember? I know what your eyes were telling me."

 

"Gee, Spike. You've been around, what, a hundred-and-fifty years and you still can't recognize misery?"

 

"You don’t mean that."

 

"Spike, I thought my life could not get any worse. Then I slept with you and suddenly it did."

 

~*~

**They dishonoured me, after my death, would that I had drowned!**

**There would have been no bier to lift, no tomb to endue.**

 

Was the epitaph their idea of a joke? "She saved the world." Then "A lot" tacked on like an afterthought. She could picture them in the living room, eating her sister's food, smiling through their sniffles.

 

_Buffy would appreciate the humor. Yes, she always did have a way with words, didn't she._

 

Why did they bother with a coffin if they were just going to rifle with the contents later? They could have put her on ice. Maybe put a deep freezer in the basement and tucked her in next to the frozen chicken. She probably wouldn't have needed a manicure after fighting her way out of that.

 

She wrenched the headstone out and dragged it home. Maybe the engraver would give a refund.

 

~*~

**My heart can vouch your arrow is merely half-drawn**

**This sweet pain would not be there, had it gone right through.**

 

 

Spike glanced down at the stake pricking his chest.

 

"Ease up, slayer. Can't be your whipping-boy if I'm all dusty."

 

He watched her process that, a little slower than he'd like, and held himself still as the wood punctured his skin and slid between his ribs. Just before he let himself start to panic, her eyes went wide and she jerked her hand back. The stake fell by their feet.

 

She pinched his perforated skin between her thumb and fore-finger as if that would make the wound go away. He gentled her fingers with his own hands, trying to calm them both.

 

"'S alright, luv," he began, but she would have none of it.

 

"Put some neosporin on that," she muttered and fled.

 

~*~

**It was not my destiny, that I should be with you,**

**Had I lived any longer, I'd still long for you.**

 

He decided he hated the color lavender. Especially pretty lavender blouses that made women look like the goddess Flora before they tore out your unbeating heart and munched on it. For that matter, he hated incendiary devices that burned his home to a crisp for reasons based entirely on hearsay. The worst of the human race was entitled to a fair trial, but not him. No jury of his peers would deliberate on _his_ mitigating circumstances. Just a flash-bang and Captain Idaho prances away like he did the world a favor.

 

He'd take the scorched carpets and charred photographs, if for a moment she'd stand up for him. But there's not one word against the trigger-happy mercenary, no "I'm sorry your home is destroyed". There is just a woman in lavender who hands him winter.

~*~

 

**The veins of a stone would drip tears of blood,**

**The fire of my passion, were it to imbue.**

 

It made no sense to him. How could she say she didn't love him when it was obvious to a blind bat that she did. Why else would she keep coming back after swearing she'd never touch him again? And don't forget all the times she asked him to look after her Mum and sis. Slayer wouldn't hand over the family to an untrustworthy, soulless _thing_.

 

She was acting tough this time - stayed away for weeks now. But then she acted all betrayed when he and Demon girl shared a pity fuck. It beggared all belief!

 

The woman refused to do what would make her happy, and it killed him to watch her squander that passion. She'd never admit on her own how _alive_ she was when they were together. It was up to him to make her see reason.

 

~*~

**Who can ever see Her, She's the One, She is alone,**

**Were there duality, we'd have noticed it accrue.**

 

It made perfect sense, thought Buffy, that when she finally had words to say, there was no one left to talk to. Poor dead Tara. Poor mad Willow who'd been led away in a van with velvet bags on her hands to keep the magic in. Yeah, there were Dawn and Xander, but when she brought up his name they stiffened and glared as if they're the ones he'd wronged.

 

She must be out of her mind, but she wanted to talk to _him_. She was entitled to an explanation, at least. What was he _thinking_ when he pushed her back against the titles and tore at her robe? Why did she take so long to throw him across the room? And why, now, was she looking to him for answers?

 

But he was gone. First for a week, then for a month, and then she understood he may never be back. She was still full of words, so she spilled them to him in her head. Sometimes he even talked back.

 

~*~

**These mystical conundrums, this style of yours Ghalib,**

**We would consider you a sage, were you wine to eschew.**

 

Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.

 

When it had sunk in that what he'd almost done to her was rape, he felt sick to his gut. Then he felt disturbed by his self-lothing. What was he now if the old rules of Want-Take-Have didn't work for him anymore? Bad enough that the chip interfered with the Taking. Now he had Jiminy Cricket in his ear telling him not to Want.

 

Whatever vestigial conscience he'd begun to grow, it was too strong to give him peace and too weak to guide him. He couldn't - wouldn't - be rid of it, and that left one other option. Or at least that's what the bottom of the Jim Beam bottle told him.

 

He got to Tanzania with a single thought in his mind - a soul would make sense of everything. He held that thought as he found the cave of shadows, and he clung to it as he fought his nightmares in humanity's cradle.

 

Now the soul is his and it hurts so much. For the first time in a century he wants his mother near but his mother is dead (by his own hand). There is only one place that feels like home and he prays he will find mercy there.

 

-30-

**Author's Note:**

> The ghazal is a poetic form that's central to the literatures of Arabia, Persia and India. Like the sonnet it has a strictly defined structure based on couplets, and traditionally deals with illicit or unattainable love. The couplets in a ghazal are thematically linked but each can stand on its own as a complete idea.
> 
> Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is the recognized master of the form in the Urdu language, and engages in spectacular wordplay that can give two lines of verse nearly half a dozen possible interpretations. I'm also convinced he was writing Spuffy before Joss Whedon was a twinkle in his great-great-grandfather's eye.
> 
> The translation is based on the Diwan-e-Ghalib translated by Sarvat Rahman, published by the Ghalib Institute in New Delhi. I've tweaked it a bit but tried my best to stay true to the original poem, or at least one of its possible interpretations. Want more? There's a transliteration here [http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00ghalib/020/index_020.html] with links to translations and glossary for each couplet.


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